All The Warlock's Men
by everambling
Summary: Tom Riddle was born in 1977, graduating from Hogwarts only shortly before Hermione Granger. When a bizarre break-in at the Wizengamot leads them both to investigate a story for the Prophet, a vast network of corruption is uncovered, threatening to topple the Ministry itself. [Based on the Woodward & Bernstein novel detailing the Washington Post's investigation into Watergate.]
1. i

**All The Warlock's Men**  
_by everambling_

i

June 17th, 1999. Nine o'clock Saturday morning. Early for a Floo call. Nott brought him the news before the owls began to flock the office windows.

Riddle listened and seethed. Five wizards, apprehended while trespassing inside Wizengamot chambers, had been taken to Azkaban at daybreak to await trial. They counted among their number Augustus Rookwood, recently retired Unspeakable, who was purported to have called on Lucius Malfoy to act as his legal council.

"Skeeter might try to scoop you on the story," Nott concluded. Right on cue, Rita Skeeter was followed into the office by hosts of lime green memos.

Rita moved like someone assured of her own position. She was not yet heading the _Daily Prophet_, but she knew the secrets of everyone in the room, and what she did not know, she invented, which was just as good. She dedicated herself to vitriol with aplomb and was rewarded with top sales. Her gold teeth glinted at the competition across the room, flashing a warning: Rita would suffer no one to stand in her way.

It suited Riddle to let her go on thinking he was as much under her sway as the rest of the office. He had toyed with the idea of eliminating her, but upon discovering her little secret had decided that it would be more sensible to blackmail her when the opportunity presented himself.

He swished his wand under his robes.

"_Imperio_."

"So I suppose you've heard." Nott's lips moved at Riddle's command. "Incredible, isn't it?"

"Young man, when you've owned a Quick Quotes Quill as long as I have, nothing surprises you anymore," said Rita.

"And about Warbeck accepting, as well?" Nott insisted.

Rita's expression slipped. The flash of gold receded.

"Eh? Celestina Warbeck?"

"Right. Well, we—Riddle and I—asked Cuffe to assign us to the story, but he turned us down. We'll probably end up on the Wizengamot arrest." Riddle gave his wand another flick, and Nott raised an eyebrow. "Obviously, you know about Celestina Warbeck being offered Dumbledore's post? She's meant to replace him as Headmistress of Hogwarts."

A blank, earnest face greeted Rita's scrutiny.

"You didn't…? Perhaps I should've spoken to Cuffe first before saying anything," Nott muttered.

"Excuse me, darling," said Rita briskly. "Duty calls."

She was gone in a swish of magenta silk and a click of tapered bootheels. Riddle released Nott from the curse.

"I need everything you can find on Rookwood," he said. There was no call to obtain clearance from Cuffe. Once Riddle got the scoop, the story would be conferred to him as a matter of course.

Nott look dazed. "Did you just—"

"Yes, yes, there was no time to explain what I required of you," said Riddle impatiently. "Rookwood. Now."

Nott disguised his reluctance, albeit poorly, and busied himself about the paperwork. Riddle could taste steel on his tongue. A vibration much like when too many curses broke the skin in rapid succession. This Wizengamot business was a window, he thought. Exactly what it might lead to was anyone's guess, but a familiar headache was pressing in on the edges of his vision. The window was his for the taking.

One of the fireplaces lining the oak wall opposite roared to life. Emerald sparks spilled onto the ancient shag carpet as two figures stepped out. Barnabus Cuffe, and Hermione Granger.

An impediment.

"Ah, Tom!" cried Cuffe, Editor in Chief, brain of a Bowtruckle. "Good job you're here at this early hour. Seen Skeeter around these parts?"

"She went out," said Riddle. He kept his eyes on the Editor and his attention trained wholly on Granger.

"Indeed. Just as well. I don't look forward to assigning her that backfiring lavatory story in Wales. She'll have been expecting… Well, but I've arranged otherwise with Miss Granger, here. I believe you two know each other?"

"I was a year behind Riddle at Hogwarts," said Granger with ill-concealed discomfort. She held out a hand and Riddle shook it, steadily, smiling.

Hermione Granger was bookish, domineering, and certainly clever. She was a Gryffindor and a Mudblood, that most damning of combinations. At school she had hung around with a Potter and a Weasley, unremarkable dolts both, and after that incident with the Chamber of Secrets all three had seemed to give Riddle a wide berth. Granger might never know that Riddle felt a rather amusing, intangible connection to her for how close she had come to losing her life at his hands. Had circumstances not transpired differently…

"And my successor, as a former Head Girl," said Riddle. Granger's answering smile was thin.

Insensible to the tone of their exchange, Cuffe clapped his hands together.

"I trust you will show Miss Granger around our offices, then!" he exclaimed. "She will be working here in collaboration with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for the duration of the Wizengamot break-in trials, of which I am sure you've had wind by now. She will be heading the investigation."

Rage burned its way up Riddle's throat. Into his mouth, his nose. Cloying.

"Very good, sir," he said quietly.

"Miss Granger has a standing arrangement with the paper for contractual work as a political correspondent, as a result of a previous, ah, altercation with Rita," said Cuffe by way of an explanation, which he at least seemed to think Riddle was owed. "Miss Granger, I am assigning Tom to the investigation alongside you for an extra eye with some field experience. You understand. I leave you in his capable hands."

"Oh!" Granger said, taken aback. "That really isn't necessary—I mean, thank you sir, but I don't…"

Cuffe had already hurried away.

Riddle and Granger remained at a standoff, staring at one another with naked dislike, until Riddle reached for his cloak.

"Do you drink, Miss Granger?" he asked.

* * *

Two Harpies. Five Goblins. One Mudblood. Five Purebloods converting gold to scotch. Riddle kept stock of the patrons at the Hopping Pot while Granger pretended to consume her ginger and wine.

She was not as clever as she had appeared at Hogwarts. She had come out for a drink.

Flint, Nott, and Crabbe were watching from the furthest booth. Their eyes shifted from Riddle's hood to Granger's neckline, their expressions from one kind of hunger to another. On Riddle's signal, any one of them would have strode over and cursed the breath from Granger's lungs. If she knew it, she did not betray a trace of anxiety. She sat with her back to them.

"You asked me here for a reason," she said.

"Professional courtesy," said Riddle. "If we're to work together, we should become better acquainted than we were at Hogwarts, don't you think?"

"I didn't intend for Cuffe to assign us to the story together."

Flint laughed loudly at a comment of Nott's. Both leered in Granger's direction. Without turning, she shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

Riddle threw them a quelling look. "Our friends didn't move in the same circles. But we were both Prefects, after all."

"You don't have friends, Riddle," said Granger mildly. "You have followers. Hangers-on."

There was something in her tone that recalled brash, intolerable Bellatrix Lestrange, who had disrobed for him in a forgotten wing of Malfoy Manor. Who liked to cut her house-elves, sometimes, with the blunt edge of a silver knife. Who spoke to Riddle with an assurance that she would come to regret, one day.

"Granger." He moved to reveal the lines of his face to the candlelight. "This story is mine in all but title. You must realize that."

"And you must have wanted the title badly, to have had Rita sidelined," Granger mused.

"But it seems I needn't have bothered. What must have happened between Skeeter and you since Hogwarts, when she was lambasting you for using love potions on Viktor Krum? She didn't cede the story to you willingly, I'm sure."

"I never used a love potion on Viktor," Granger snapped. "That's vile."

At this, Riddle's anger was stoked and burned hotter. Talk of vileness and love potions put him in a state of discomfort. He felt small. He felt unremarkable.

Viper quick, Riddle reached over the table and seized Granger's wrist. He held her fast and stood, though she stiffened.

"Come dance," he said.

Granger flashed a look of dismay. "Thank you, but I prefer to turn in early and get a good start on the story tomorrow."

"I know three things about Rookwood that you don't. For each dance, I'll tell you one of them."

They moved across the pub to the patio adjoined by Bowman Wright's Iron Forge, where enchanted awnings shielded the cobbled way from moonlight. The skin of their arms brushed together. Riddle found this uncomfortable and provoking, just as he had found Bellatrix. He had reached out to touch her, yes; thinking of love potions all the while. He had found the whole ecstatic ordeal a reminder of the shack with the Adder nailed to the door, and the inbred whelp cowering within, and the filth coating every surface.

There was a gramophone by the pub window blaring an old Warbeck tune. They danced.

"The Rookwoods are intimately acquainted with the Minister's Senior Undersecretary, Umbridge," said Riddle. Two steps right. One step back.

"If that's the case, why did Rookwood retain Lucius Malfoy as his attorney?"

"That is the question we face. To call on Umbridge for legal council would seem the wiser move."

"Then tomorrow we should pay Malfoy a visit."

Two steps left. Riddle was now facing the pub, holding Granger to him. On his nod, Crabbe stumbled through.

Crabbe brandished his wand. Nott followed behind him, casting sparks and uttering curses. Riddle swung Granger around so that she was safe from harm.

"Stop," he barked.

Crabbe and Nott disregarded him. They might not have been playacting at all. Both loped drunkenly in a half circle, their curses narrowly missing one another. Granger had drawn her wand. The taste was back, the bitterness on Riddle's tongue. Everything was unfolding.

A well-placed curse of Nott's grazed Granger's shoulder. She screamed.

Riddle spun. His movements were exact; his spell cleared the alleyway, throwing Nott and Crabbe twenty feet into the air. A preternatural calm followed. The pub's patrons knew better than to come running. For the still forms of his acolytes sprawled on the cobbled way, Riddle reserved cold contempt. He gave a negligent wave of his wand, tossing them against the side of a nearby shop.

"Are you all right?" he asked Granger.

A hundred times he had executed this ploy, to a hundred dutiful exclamations of gratitude. Granger was no exception. She smiled, heaping on him all the requisite thanks. And, she stood a good distance from him, arms crossed. Something was amiss.

"Why did you do that?" she asked at last.

"I believe the element of trust will be of some value if we're to work together. I won't have a colleague harmed by petty miscreants. We have had our differences, Miss Granger, but you will recall that I have never tolerated disorder."

"I also recall Nott and Crabbe being your shadows at Hogwarts. Always at your beck and call."

"Meaning?"

She cast a look around, to the grit, the broken glass, the sheen of Rosemerta's cider coating the Alley. There was a stench to Knockturn that was lost in the race to outfox the rabble that passed for company there. But Granger could smell it.

"I think we ought to retire for the night," she said at last. "Thank you for the drink, and… whatever else happened here." She left without requesting the two more pieces of information he had promised.

Riddle decided to kill her.

* * *

On the Saturday following, Cuffe sent Granger on a Portkey to the continent to speak to Elphias Doge, retired member of the highest ranks of the Wizengamot. For the duration of her absence, Granger made periodic Floo calls to the _Prophet_ offices. Her information was clear, prompt, and valuable. Cuffe was in the throes of adoration: the temple of Granger was soon an inviolate institution in his eyes. By the second edition deadline on the 25th of June, Granger had uncovered a series of Gringotts notes inexplicably bearing the seal of Dolores Umbridge's office, passed through a number of German banks and into the pockets of… Augustus Rookwood.

"We've never had a story like this," Cuffe raved. "Not ever."

To the sound of Rita grinding her teeth conspicuously at her desk, Riddle rewrote Granger's hurriedly scrawled reports for print, adding the panache favored by the _Prophet's_ readership and ensuring that his byline appeared on the saga in its entirety. Granger's work, it was impossible to deny, was a cut above the usual drivel produced by Nott or any of the interns Cuffe fished out of the rubbish pile in Diagon. With the time Riddle saved on useless corrections, he was able to re-establish contact with an old acquaintance.

The Wasp, so named for his former occupation as Beater of a beloved National League Quidditch team, was a petty gambler turned Confidence man, who could be counted on to produce Class C Non-Tradable Goods on a dime and move them through the bounds of Hogwarts. He was also a notorious bed-hopper, which made him a goldmine of Wizarding society secrets.

Riddle's owl to the Wasp detailed the connection between Umbridge and Rookwood and asked whether the underground had anything to add on the subject. The Wasp responded within the hour: off the record, several prominent members of the Minister's former personal security staff, including current Head of the Auror Office Gawain Robards, had long held an unusual obsession for Dorcas Meadowes, Fudge's chief competitor. Word on the street was that Robards had at one time engaged in a thorough investigation of Meadowes's personal activities, off the books.

It was possible, the Wasp added, that Fudge himself had been privy to this investigation. Had perhaps provided, through gold laundered by none other than Dolores Umbridge, the funds for the investigation's subsistence.

Riddle drafted the story. On the way to the fact-checker's desk to hand it in, he paused.

Through Potter and his father, the darling of the Curse-Breaker's Association of Wizarding Britain, Granger had access to a network of connections nearly equaling Riddle's own. Her continued involvement would ensure the expediency of the story's unraveling. He could always wait to dispose of her.

Riddle veered into Cuffe's office and requested that Granger's byline be included on the story, though she had not officially taken part in this particular facet of its development. Cuffe seemed pleased.

Granger never mentioned it. Riddle saw her celebrating her return from Germany in the Alley outside the _Prophet_ offices one evening, surrounded by a cheerful band of Gryffindors. Clad in Muggle dress, smiling and chatting happily, she struck a very different figure to the severe reporter who haunted Cuffe's office day and night.

Their gazes crossed before Riddle could slip by unnoticed. She regarded him intently.

"Would you like to join us?" she asked.

The Longbottom boy who was always trailing after Granger's entourage froze, open-mouthed. Potter and Weasley looked at her uneasily.

"Thank you," said Riddle. "But I'm late for an appointment."

She nodded. The setting sun caught the window display behind her, flooding the Alley with wildfire light. For a moment Granger and her friends looked macabre with shadows cast across their faces and halos behind their heads.

Riddle Apparated home to his East London flat and immersed himself once more in Wizengamot records, until night turned to day.

* * *

On the first day of July, Cornelius Fudge addressed the public via Wizarding Wireless Network. The _Prophet _staff interrupted its annual community soirée to gather round Cuffe's wooden wireless and listen. Granger seated herself next to Riddle.

"Do you realize this is happening because of us?" she said in an undertone. The smell of ginger and wine wafted in Riddle's direction. She seemed in abnormally festive spirits, which Riddle attributed to the visit Weasley had paid her midway through the day.

Riddle sat rigid at the edge of Cuffe's desk, impassive in the stifling July heat, and gave a brief nod.

"I've been hearing all kinds of nonsense," Granger went on. "About how we ought to drop the story after this. If it's gotten his attention to the point where he's holding a press conference, it means the Minister's office will be upset. They could make trouble for us in the future."

Riddle nodded.

"Obviously, you disregarded them?" he said.

Granger smiled, pressing her glass against her forehead. The condensation turned to droplets of water at her hairline, sliding down her temple. The wireless crackled.

Fudge's voice invaded the airwaves.

"Pursuant to concerns raised in the Wizarding community following the recent Wizengamot break-ins," he said, "this office is launching a full investigation into any possible Ministry involvement in these ill-doings."

The copy editors shared looks of interest between them, nodding their approval. Granger made a small disparaging noise. Riddle shared her sentiment, but refrained from broadcasting his thoughts. He wished she would sit elsewhere.

Fudge added that any allegations of involvement by Dolores Umbridge in the break-ins were outlandish speculation. "We are taking every measure to ensure that our administration is free from implication in this matter. Of course, there have been allegations on both sides." He paused for dramatic effect. To the best of Riddle's knowledge, there had not, in fact, been any allegations of wrongdoing against Fudge's opponents. "I can say categorically that no one on my personal staff, presently employed, was involved in this very bizarre incident. Of course, the Devil of it is, in these situations—Mistakes will happen, of course, when passionate witches and wizards pursue their calling to the full extent of their capacity. This we can all understand. But what cannot be forgiven is a cover-up. No such skullduggery will be tolerated under my watch."*

Riddle released a breath as the broadcast cut out. Chairs were scraping against the floor as all but one of the staff returned to the party. Riddle realized that he and Granger had both leaned forward, the better to hear the address.

"What a ponce!" Rita exclaimed. There was an outbreak of raucous laughter.

Riddle and Granger leaned back, wearing identical frowns.

* * *

*Directly adapted from the first of Richard Nixon's 1972 political press conferences surrounding the Watergate break-ins. Ref. Bernstein, C. & Bob Woodward. _All the President's Men_. Warner Paperback Library: New York, 1975. Print.


	2. ii

_ii_

August 9th. A week after news surfaced that one of Robards's bloodhounds, an Auror by the name of Dawlish, had been summarily fired by the Minister's office for his suspected involvement in the Wizengamot break-ins, Hermione managed, in an unprecedented turn, to drag along no fewer than eight people to a S.P.E.W. rally in Diagon.

There were Harry and Ginny, who stood suspiciously close throughout and participated only vaguely in actual recruitment. Ron was there, though he punctuated his entire visit with muttered asides to the effect that he really should be getting back to the joke shop soon. Neville, bless his heart, had brought Luna Lovegood, whom Hermione liked but found terribly difficult to establish common ground with in conversation. Mrs Potter had brought the Potters's elf, Batsy, along with her regrets that Mr Potter was in Bangladesh on a work call and could not be present. Batsy, a jittery elf dressed in what might have been Muggle toddlers' clothes, tried Hermione's nerves with each visit by insisting that she was happy working for the Potters, and that alternative methods of recompense were preferable over gold.

Tom Riddle was there, also.

Hermione knew exactly what to make of Riddle. She knew that the tentative thaw in their rapport, a byproduct of their surprisingly functional working relationship, could not last. He would see the opportunity to double-cross her one day, and she would be ready for him. She also knew that he had played some part in the Chamber of Secrets debacle at school, which had resulted in the death of Penelope Clearwater and had sealed the end of the Triwizard Tournament with tragedy rather than triumph. On several occasions, Hermione had wondered whether, if he was indeed responsible, Riddle might have done it simply to overshadow Diggory's Triwizard victory. Riddle was not one to be outshone.

Of course, nothing had ever been conclusively proven. The blame for the incident had fallen on the shoulders of Professor Pettigrew, that long-time friend of Mr Potter's. Hermione had never seen a look that quite matched the one on Mr Potter's face when he had gotten the news.

Under cover of Ron's very unsubtle chaperoning of Harry and Ginny, Hermione edged closer to Riddle.

"I appreciate the show of solidarity," she said, waving a leaflet in the face of a harried looking witch who immediately quickened her stride. "But it wasn't necessary to stay for the rally. A simple signature on my petition would have been more than enough."

Riddle leaned back against the boarded window of Dr Filibuster's now-defunct shop, waiting for all members of their party to be looking elsewhere.

"I have a source," he said. "Deep background, from high up at the Ministry. He can't ever be identified or quoted, but he's always set me on the right track with a story. I'm to meet him here shortly, and this is as good a cover as any while I wait."

Hermione stared. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I know you've been having me followed," said Riddle sharply.

Hermione had been doing nothing of the sort. His paranoia really was remarkable.

To avoid overplaying her hand, she merely sighed and said, "And you're meeting this deep background source here in the open, at noon in the middle of Diagon?"

Riddle nodded in the direction of the Leaky Cauldron Inn, above stairs, where a number of patrons were unabashedly airing out their underthings on charmed clotheslines, or else shouting at one another across balconies over the cacophonous hum of the Alley.

"Draco's room, booked year round," he said, indicating a particularly drab railing. "The potted Flutterby on the ledge there: charmed to bloom only on my command. That's the signal for my source. Cuffe calls him the Oak Warlock after the Hobgoblins song which I believe was banned in several countries—"

"I don't want to know why!" said Hermione hurriedly.

"The location of our meetings is top secret."

Hermione did not push for more information. She squinted at the potted plant on the railing.

"Malfoy stays there?" she said dubiously. When Riddle raised an eyebrow, she had to smile. "Of course not. The room's simply leased in his name."

A passer-by in a pork-pie hat knocked into her, and Hermione was shoved into Mrs Potter. Leaflets cascaded in every direction.

"I'm sorry!" Hermione exclaimed.

"Not to worry," said Mrs Potter, smiling. She raised her wand. Together they spelled the leaflets back into their box, and Hermione's face fell: they had gotten rid of less than a quarter of the stack thus far.

"Things will pick up," said Luna dreamily. "People are just distracted because of this business of Flippending Jobberknolls. You know they can breathe fire?"

Managing a strained smile, Hermione turned back to continue her discussion with Riddle. But he was gone.

Hermione wished she could have access to a source like his. She had been making no progress interrogating Wizengamot secretarial staff and bookkeepers. None would come right out and confirm any of the allegations leveled against their superiors, and even less would they discuss the sacking of Dawlish. The closest Hermione had come to a real lead had been Bertha Jorkins's slip-up regarding termination procedures ("Sacked? Well, that may be, but I'll tell you what, Dawlish spends about as much time around the office now as ever. Nosing in everywhere, I've seen him!"). The tip, however, had been a dead end. Dawlish was not technically forbidden from stepping foot on Ministry property.

The only reason Hermione had fought so hard to take on the Wizengamot story was because her former Defense teacher, Professor McKinnon, so instrumental in helping her secure an O on her NEWTs, had hinted that it would benefit her standing in Magical Law Enforcement. Being aware of McKinnon's close relationship with Dorcas Meadowes, Hermione had sprung into action at once. She was not one for quitting before having explored all possible avenues, but she was now beginning to think she ought to give up the story as a bad job. Let Riddle have it all to himself and be free of his discomforting presence day after day.

A clamoring alerted Hermione to the fact that she had lost her group to Florean Fortescue. The shopkeeper had emerged into the Alley carrying a tray of five-tiered, iced confections that made even Hermione's attention waver. Resigned, she accepted Mrs Potter's help in packing away her leaflets before ordering a Butterbeer fudge-nut sundae for herself, and one for Batsy.

Late that evening, the bell was rung at Hermione's flat in Bethnal Green. She very seldom received guests past eleven when Ron was busy at the shop. Throwing on a powder blue robe to cover herself, she located her wand on the top of her bookcase and tiptoed to the vestibule.

The visitor was Tom Riddle.

Hermione immediately remembered Penelope Clearwater and took a step back. There was no true reason to suspect Riddle of ill-intent. She, Harry, and Ron had never been able to prove outright that he had harmed a single hair on another student's head. On every occasion when she had found herself alone with him over the course of their investigation, he had been courteous, if aloof. All the same, Hermione placed a pouch of Floo powder in her pocket before opening the door.

"You have a quill and parchment?" was Riddle's greeting.

Hermione stepped aside to let him in. When the door was closed, she edged closer to the fireplace.

"Why aren't you asking Cuffe for a quill?" she said.

"Cuffe locked up earlier than he normally does. It's imperative that we set this story down for tomorrow's paper."

"But it's well past the third deadline, we'll never make the printing press in time for the morning edition—"

"They'll extend the deadline for us," said Riddle firmly.

With misgivings, Hermione summoned a pair of quills, an inkwell, and a roll of parchment.

"There's been a massive cleaning operation," Riddle explained. "My source claims the Minister's staff is furious about the _Prophet's_ coverage of the Wizengamot break-ins. Another source of mine—Bagman, he's been outed now—has been brought in for questioning. Proudfoot and Thicknesse have been called upon to dispose of all incriminating documents stored in Ministry archives; those we weren't granted access to when scouring Wizengamot records."

The full impact of his story was not lost on Hermione. A source with this kind of insight had to be very high placed indeed.

"Why are you coming to me with this?" she could not help asking.

"This story is time-sensitive. There isn't time for me to draft it all by the extended deadline."

He was right. It would be a miracle if they managed to produce anything printable by midnight between the two of them.

"If you'd like to change," Riddle added, taking a seat at her table.

They worked in silence, filling up several feet of parchment, until the clock on Hermione's mantle struck twelve. She felt she had managed to cobble together a reasonable facsimile of an article. Riddle snatched her writing out from under her the moment she set down her quill. It made Hermione uncomfortable to watch him read, so she stood.

"I'll put on a pot of tea," she said.

Riddle's eyes continued to fly across her parchment. Hermione wondered what had gotten him so invested in the Wizengamot break-ins. It had the potential to be an important story, but no more so than half a dozen other events the _Prophet_ had reported on that year. What was it that had captured his interest so sharply? She would have expected a former Head Boy of his stripe to rise to prominence at the Ministry, or else perhaps to end up tangled with the wrong crowd in Knockturn. The _Daily Prophet_ seemed too work-a-day for the likes of him.

The smell of lemon and ginseng filled the flat. Hermione's candles had burned almost halfway down to the wick since Riddle's arrival. They would likely make the deadline, but right down to the wire.

"This will work," said Riddle without inflection. He was not one to dole out praise. She had seldom gotten so much as a nod of approval out of him at school when reporting on her rounds, though this must have had more to do with the crowd he frequented. It was unclear whether Riddle shared his housemates' views on the value of blood, or whether he simply wished to remain on their good side. Either way, Hermione had been glad to be rid of the lot of them.

She set Riddle's tea down in front of him. A crescent of starlight fell upon her wrist and revealed it to be splattered with ink. Hermione wrinkled her nose. She had, it seemed, become just as invested in the story as Riddle himself.

"We should have everything we need," he said, nodding his thanks for the tea. "This will throw the investigation open wide. It will be a whole new game from this point on."

"I'm glad you think so," said Hermione. She turned away momentarily to straighten her clock. "It does feel as though this story is growing beyond anything I might have expected. Just the other day I was doing some supplementary research at the library in Grimmauld Place—You know the one? The Blacks used to be friends with the Malfoys, though they're estranged from Mr Black now. He owns the whole estate since his brother passed away. All the Wizarding inheritance contracts the Ministry doesn't own are there. And it confirms what we thought. Unauthorized branches of the Ministry have been siphoning gold from defunct Pureblood lines, and the only way to prompt internal investigation is to put the truth in print. The Burkes, the Peverells, the Gaunts… All their fortunes have been seized by the Ministry and funnelled into dummy—"

Hermione turned around and broke off. Riddle was standing, with his wand held aloft and a look of grave intent in his eyes. Though he was not moving, Hermione had the strangest impression that he was about to curse her.

"What did you say?" he murmured.

Hermione frowned, retreating closer to the fireplace. "The—the gold has been moved through false business fronts and deposited into the vaults of—"

"_Tell the truth!_"

Riddle's words rang through the flat. It could not have been plainer that he was accustomed to giving orders. When it came down to it, Hermione, too, had used this tone on first-years. And occasionally on Ron and Harry.

"You're not Head Boy anymore, Riddle. And this is my case. My flat. I don't know where you get the nerve to think you can speak to me that way."

It was uncanny how quickly he smoothed out his expression.

"You're right, of course," he said. "My apologies, Granger. I'll be going. Could I trouble you for some of the Floo powder in your pocket?"

Hermione clenched her teeth together. Numbly, she produced the satchel of powder and held it out to him. Riddle gathered up their rolls of parchment and took a pinch, nodding.

He was gone before she could remember to ask how he had known where she lived.

* * *

Hermione's dreams were riddled with the angry shouts of reluctant sources, the chilling baritone of Riddle's voice. She drifted from Diagon Alley to the depths of the Ministry, where the faces of Cornelius Fudge and Dorcas Meadowes appeared before her by turns. Somewhere in the distance hovered the petition Hermione had signed to restore Meadowes to the MLE after Fudge had briefly had her ousted. Disembodied hands clutched at her robes, holding her back.

The smell of lemon invaded Hermione's nostrils. She awoke coated in a cold sweat, her hand grasping for her wand.

She had checked once, twice, three times that all her doors were charmed shut. She had paid a Floo call to the Burrow to see whether Ron might not stay with her until morning, but Mrs Weasley had informed her that Ron was still in London with the twins.

Certainly, Riddle would not return to exact some sort of revenge. There had been no real disagreement between them, only a slight malaise on Hermione's part. Perhaps she was imagining things.

"Rubbish," she said out loud, surprising herself somewhat.

When she had been fifteen years old, Hermione had emerged from the cubicle of a girls' lavatory at Hogwarts to find Head Girl Penelope Clearwater frozen, staring in horror at the coiling body of a mammoth serpent. Penelope had died instantly. Hermione had been spared when Ron and Harry had sprinted into the lavatory moments later brandishing the mirrors she had advised them to carry everywhere.

The next day, during a sombre mourning feast in the Great Hall, she had been the unhappy subject of a hundred hushed conversations. Had she seen the monster? Had she been the intended target, rather than Penelope? Was she aware that Professor Pettigrew had fled school grounds?

Having received a nasty scrape in her rush to escape the Basilisk, Hermione was glad to evade scrutiny by retreating to the hospital wing. There, she received a card signed by all Hogwarts Prefects.

The card had been Riddle's idea, and came with a care package, the Matron informed her fondly. So polite, that poor orphaned Riddle. Attentive, too, and handsome. Didn't she think so?

Hermione stared at the package for a very long time. She recognized it; had seen it before, in fact, on one of her unauthorized visits down to the Hogwarts kitchens to recruit support for S.P.E.W. It had been handed to Riddle by an elf, and Riddle had tucked the card inside, folding down the edges a little. Hermione had hidden behind a tower of cutlery, because she did not want to be seen out of bounds after curfew.

That had been the day _before_ the attack on Penelope.

At present Hermione clutched her wand tighter. A second, private investigation was called for. Come what may, Hermione was going to discover why Riddle had turned to the _Prophet_ after Hogwarts.

* * *

Clouds of smoke in all the shades of painted dusk rose from the end of Rita's cigar. She always brought the foul things to Hermione's desk on purpose, to taint the air with the acrid scent of tobacco and Ashwinder scale powder.

"What is it?" asked Hermione aggressively.

Rita made a great show of tapping her forefinger against the end of her cigar, spreading ashes all across Hermione's paperwork.

"There's a guest here to see you," she said. A flash of gold. "Dragged in by that Werewolf of yours. I've put them in my office so as not to attract notice. You're welcome, Miss Prissy."

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "And what is it you want in exchange for this very altruistic favor?"

Rita grinned wide. "You're all finesse, Missy. If you want to put it that way, I would like access to the Black family library."

"What on earth for?"

"The investigation into Albus Dumbledore's replacement Riddle tipped me off to is proving tricky. I'll say no more. Will you speak to Sirius Black for me, or not?"

Hermione could hardly imagine what Riddle might have done to convince Rita that Dumbledore was leaving his post. She was far too eager to see what new lead awaited her in Rita's office to protest. She nodded curtly, waving smoke from her face.

A familiar, worn-looking man jumped to his feet when Hermione entered the office.

"Mr Lupin!" Hermione exclaimed, beaming. "It's so lovely to see you! It's been a long time."

"Not since they caught the Cauldron Strangler," Lupin agreed. "I must say I prefer visiting you here than at the Ministry. Your colleagues are interesting types."

Hermione sighed. "I'm sorry about Rita."

"Nothing compared to the creatures I've been treating with in Scotland," said Lupin, waving a careless hand. "Now, Harry said I could find you here. And as usual, I've brought you something."

He shifted, and a second wizard came into view. This man was slight, nervous, with a trembling chin. Hermione would have taken him for an undersecretary of some sort, a pleasant man of middle consequence, if not for the way his eyes constantly danced to evade capture. He looked between Lupin and the door. The door and Lupin. He ground his teeth.

"Hermione, this is Quirinus Quirrell," Lupin said. "Procurer for Croak & Ludwell's Apothecary, and more recently, a member of the Dragonslashers."

"I haven't heard of them," said Hermione, reaching at once for the satchel in which she kept the bulk of her notes.

"Don't bother," Lupin forestalled her. "It isn't a group registered with any organization you know. The name is a rather tasteless in-joke. You remember what they called Dorcas Meadowes during her Ministerial campaign?"

"The Opaleye…" A firm stance on furthering Dragon preservation habitat, apparently, was enough to earn one a permanent derisive nickname from the press. "But then—"

"The lovely folks calling themselves the Dragonslashers are a network of saboteurs. Charged, by none other than one Gawain Robards, with undermining the political activities of Madame Meadowes."

"Were they paid?" asked Hermione with mounting excitement. "From the slush fund set up by Umbridge?"

"That you'll have to find out for yourself. You've always been the more adept at negotiations. Merlin only knows how you managed to get Skeeter under your thumb; Harry would never tell me. In any case, I have to be going. Lily and James are expecting me. Be sure to ask him for the names of his associates."

Lupin handed Hermione Quirrell's wand and took his leave, smiling the smile of deep-seated fatigue that was his trademark.

One and three-quarter hour later, Hermione emerged from Rita's office with four names written on a piece of parchment, in addition to Quirrell's. But it was not enough. With Quirrell free to go, she needed the names confirmed by a reliable source. Cuffe would never let her take any of this to print, otherwise.

Reluctantly, she sealed the names in an envelope, and owled them to Riddle.


End file.
